


The Hallow Study

by crystanagahori



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Gen, Harry Potter Crossover - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-15
Updated: 2014-01-19
Packaged: 2018-01-08 19:56:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1136734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crystanagahori/pseuds/crystanagahori
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pre-Sign of Three. Sherlock and John are engaged by a young mystery client to find her father's killer. Unfortunately, Sherlock insists that he has never heard of Harry Potter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Act One

**Author's Note:**

> All standard disclaimers apply. Hello everyone, and welcome to my first attempt at writing a mystery. Sorry, not a romance story. Just a little something to shake up the fandom, maybe.

The Hallow Study 

Chapter One

 

It was a quiet afternoon in Baker Street, or as about quiet as it could get. The weather had been wonderful that day, bright sunny skies had greeted the summer months, and Sherlock had naturally chosen to stay in and watch the telly. Mary and John had gone out to dinner with some ex-girlfriend of his (clearly John's idea, and clearly done without Sherlock or Mary's consultation), and without an interesting enough case and wedding details to pour over, Sherlock had reached the inevitable crux of his problem. He was bored. 

 

"She clearly cheated on him! Look at the size of that hair! Oh, boo," the Consulting Detective yelled. It was nearing the evening already, and he was still in his robe. He had not left his seat since he had gotten up from bed. This was him in a much calmer state now, as earlier he had proclaimed that the television was pointing at least five degrees more to the right than the last time he had seen it.

 

"You must have poked it with that harpoon you brought in with you last week, dearie, you remember?" Mrs. Hudson asked, bringing him a sandwich from the shop downstairs. 

 

"Mrs. Hudson, I will only ask for your opinion when I need it, so do shut up for now," he said. "You may dust the cabinets or something."

 

Mrs. Husdon gave him a smile and shook her head like Sherlock hadn't just told her to sod off. "Not your housekeeper, dear." She reminded him, humming to herself as she went to the kitchen and attempt to tidy up. It was then that John scampered up the stairs like an overly enthusiastic puppy. Usually not a good sign.

 

"Still watching American telly, are we?" he asked, emerging from his room looking ready to go out. Sherlock immediately noted his cologne and the way he had attempted to flatten his ash blonde hair. These facts aside, Sherlock decided to point out the first thing he had noted about his friend when he stepped into the living room.

"You're wearing a new jacket," he said, getting up for the first time to follow his friend around the room. "Where's Mary?"

"Out for drinks with some of her girlfriends," John said, waving a hand as he looked through the newspapers. "Any cases lately?"

"None I would regret not taking," he said slowly, peering closer at John's jacket.

_The tag was still on, so he was still not sure he was going to keep it. Better yet, it was too expensive, but he wanted to impress someone. Mary was already his fiancee and wouldn't be pleased with such extravagance, so it only meant..._

"I take it dinner with...Lila went well?"

John sighed and rolled his eyes. "It's Elizabeth, and of course it went well. She actually has a case for us. Well, you. She assumed I would bring you to dinner."

"Does she think so highly of me that I would just join you for dinner?" He scoffed like he had been accused of something ridiculous. "She cheated on you and now she finds herself dating a cheater. Boring."

 

Sherlock strode back into his seat and resumed his previous position as if to end the conversation. John smiled a little and resumed reading the papers. After a minute, Sherlock yelled at him to shut up and just tell him what the case was.

"Do you really think I would even mention it if it was boring?" John asked him with a raised eyebrow. 

"On with it then. What's the case," he said, standing up once again to go to the bathroom to shower. One might as well be clean when faced with a new case, who knows when the mood to shower will strike again? 

 

John strode over to his usual chair, the paper still in his hand. "Elizabeth is a gallery curator," he said, brushing off imaginary dirt from his trousers. "They were to display that lost Van Gogh painting--"

"Poppy Fields, biggest art find in history, yes, yes _do_ go on," Sherlock yelled from the running shower, making John roll his eyes. 

"The tabs are calling it a fake, as well as all the other paintings in the gallery," John said. "She needs you to go and authenticate them, to save her reputation."

 

Sherlock emerged from the bathroom in a gush of steam, a towel wrapped around his waist. He had a look on his face that seemed like it was actually considering but...

"Nope, boring," he said, sitting back down on his chair. Waste of a shower, then. "I told you I wouldn't leave the house for anything less than a 7 and this is definitely a 5, 5 and a half. If she doubts her own curating skills then she should hire someone better than her to check, not a consultant detective."

 

John peeked over from the top of the paper, as if asking Sherlock if he was finished with his tirade. "Last night, before she left for work, the Van Gogh was exactly as it was. But this morning…”

 

“Stolen?” Sherlock asked, his head whipping to his friend like a puppy who had smelled a treat.

  
“Possibly. There was a gap in the security footage of about two hours from last night,” John clarified. “The equipment was in perfect order, it just looked like someone had deleted two hours worth of footage from last night.” Sherlock bolted from his seat and proceeded to his bedroom to change into his work clothes. “I take it this is at least a 7?”  


“6.7. I am quite bored so I rounded up,” Sherlock yelled from the bathroom. “Nothing on the news?”

“Sir Francis Wulfric Young died,” John said, quickly skimming the article. The man was in his early fifties, seemingly healthy. Knighted with an OBE several years ago for his contributions to art and his tireless work in recovering paintings. Survived by a brother and two daughters, found dead in his apartment early this morning. 

“Murder?” Sherlock asked, peeking his head out of the door sans trousers. 

“Apparent suicide,” John clarified, looking at the article again. Sherlock made an annoyed sound and resumed dressing, out the door in under a minute and hailing a taxi in five. John, per usual, followed behind him. 

“Does Mary know we’re doing your ex a favour?” Sherlock asked pointedly, turning to his friend. His collar was up and his eyebrows were raised, the face that John always wanted to punch. He settled for a deep sigh. 

“Need I remind you that you and I were friends first?” John asked, his hands in his pockets. 

 

* * *

 

Soon, John and Sherlock arrived at the gallery. It was on the bottom floor of a large building on High Street, and was apparently well known to cabbies. “You hear about Sir Francis Young?” Their surprisingly chatty cabbie asked. John spotted Sherlock rolling his eyes at their driver’s attempt at small talk. No need to mention that the last time the cabbie had been this chatty was when Moriarty had been behind the wheel.

 

“Yes, such sad business,” John said politely. No need to be kicked out of a cab…again.  
“Suicide at his age seems a little odd, don’t you think? I mean, given he’s so rich and all.” The cabbie commented as the turned the street. “This is one of his galleries, innit?”  
“I think this one belongs to his brother, Cadmus Young.” 

“Oh, righ’,” The cabbie confirmed. “He should be pretty happy over this, e’s next of kin.”  
“The papers said he has two daughters,” John pointed out, at which the cabbie nodded.  
“Righ’, heard that too. Had a fallout with the older, didn’t he?” 

 

Sherlock Holmes burst out of the cabbie as soon has they had pulled up, leaving John to pay for the ride. John followed him into the gallery, ignoring Sherlock telling him off for talking to their driver. Elizabeth had been waiting for them in the gallery, looking pleased to see John. Sherlock noted her expensive Louboutin heels, expensive haircut and Chanel perfume. Her perfectly polished look covered up the nicotine patch on her hand, heavy bags under her eyes. He could see why someone like her would want to keep her reputation. 

 

Leaving the social niceties to John, Sherlock took a quick look around the paintings in the gallery. Mostly from quasi-famous renaissance painters, all seemingly authentic. But they weren’t there for the other paintings, were they?  
  
“The Van Gogh?” Sherlock suddenly asked, interrupting John and Elizabeth’s conversation. She shot him an annoyed look (Ah yes. Now Sherlock remembered her) and led them to the allegedly fake painting. John stood back a little while Sherlocks stepped forward with his magnifying lens. 

_Poppy Flowers. Painted by Van Gogh in 1887. Estimated value at 33 million pounds. Stolen from Cairo in 2010 until it was found months ago by the Young Art Recovery Foundation. Cut out of its frame with box cutters when it was stolen then. Sherlock noted that the colours were exactly the same as they should be, brushwork, correct. The painting even had the same frayed ends as it should when it was cut out by the Egyptians. But there was something._

“Something…lemony,” Sherlock muttered as he stepped forward and gave the painting a long, hard sniff. John, with all his military prowess, resisted the urge to giggle. Elizabeth simply raised her eyebrow. 

“Did he just…smell the Van Gogh?” A new voice asked, and three turned around. Standing beside Elizabeth was a relatively younger girl with wavy (permed?) brown hair and pale skin. She was dressed plainly in nude toned pumps, camel coloured pencil skirt and crisp white blouse. As plain as her clothes were, there was so much more hidden underneath the surface. 

_Small stain on the chest area meant sloppy eater. Shifting her wight from left to right meant impatient, but it was probably because she didn't really wear heels, judging from the welt appearing on the base of her big foot. Rich, obviously, given her new IWC watch, but tries to hide it by using cheap lipstick and Oxfam clothing, given the state of the skirt and shoes, could mean more. Places hands naturally on her waist, to seem authoritative, but shoulders are slumped, meaning insecure. Sherlock blinked, a little overwhelmed, until her big brown eyes blinked back at him._

“Sorry about this,” John said, although he wasn’t really sure who he was talking to. Mary closed her eyes and rubbed her temples, like she had expected something like this to happen. 

 

Moments later, Sherlock and John were placed inside one of the back rooms in the gallery, the painting hanging on an easel near them. “This is Carla Pope, creative director for all of the A. Cadmus Young Galleries. Carla, these are Dr. John Watson and Sherlock Holmes. They’re with Scotland Yard. I think.”

  
She sounded annoyed, and understandably so. The way she spoke to her superior showed distaste, like she was annoyed that the younger one was her boss. Carla stepped forward, and smiled. She held out her hand to Sherlock, who was busily looking at his phone. He made a satisfied sound as he made the connection.

_Same face shape, same detached earlobes. Pope was probably her mother’s maiden name. Explained her rank and her apparent insecurity._

“Nice to meet you, Miss Young,” Sherlock said politely, shaking her hand. “Not working at your father’s galleries?”

"No, this is my uncle's. Like Elizabeth said, I'm the creative director for the A. Cadmus Young Galleries.”

"Oh, of course," Sherlock said, nodding. Carla looked slightly amused.

“You were saying something about this Van Gogh,” Carla spoke, her eyes directly at Sherlock. 

“This painting’s a fake,” Sherlock repeated, a little exasperated that he had to go through this again. “I’m surprised you missed it, because it’s right there.” He pointed towards the painting behind them.  
  
“Elizabeth is more than knowledgeable on the paintings,” Carla said, her voice surprisingly even for someone who had been accused of showing a fake. “We had Poppy Fields authenticated months ago.”

“Not this painting,” Sherlock said, standing up and walking towards the painting. “It must have been switched, because I highly doubt an expert could see this as a Van Gogh. Though it’s a good forgery, there is a distinct aroma of oil paint around the painting.”

  
“It could be due to age, this painting is pretty old,” Carla pointed out, standing next to Sherlock, peering at the canvas as well. Sherlock seemed to jump back, as if alarmed that Carla had decided to stand so close to him. 

“No, ” he insisted, like he was calling Carla stupid, hovering over the area with a magnifying glass he always had about his person. “It means that the paint is new, not more than a few weeks old.”

“And…the something lemony?” John asked expectantly from behind them, his arms crossed like he was waiting for Sherlock’s answer. The consulting detective grinned like a cat with a plan.  
“Ah yes,” he said. “Elizabeth, the lights please.”

Elizabeth looked like she was about to protest, but a look from Carla sent her to the light switch. Sherlock procured a small backlight from his pocket. 

“It’s actually a simple formula, but will certainly point out that this is a fake,” Sherlock said, holding the light up to the painting. “Children normally used lemon juice to write secret messages, like invisible ink.”

 

In the blue light, a distinct mark appeared on the painting, like a… “A thunderbolt?” John asked. 

“Like Harry Potter’s scar,” Carla said, in a slightly dazed voice. Sherlock turned to look at her again, as if he had completely forgotten how he had ended up this room, right next to her. 

"What? I'm a fan," Carla continued to peer at the painting, running her fingers over the symbol. "Did you read the books, Mr. Holmes?"

"No," he said flatly. "I only intend to fill my head with useful information."

Most people would have been annoyed or insulted by that, but Carla merely turned to the painting again. "It really looks like Harry's scar. But who would go through all this trouble just to replace this painting?"

"Either we're dealing with a particularly dim thief," Sherlock said, walking away from the painting for a moment, only to come swooping back. "Or he's trying to lead us to a chase."

 

The lights came back on, and Carla told Elizabeth to contact Scotland Yard. Meanwhile, Sherlock was Googling. ”Ah. Just as I thought,” he said. “We're dealing with a child."

He said this just as Elizabeth left the room, so it was John who had come over with his hands in his pockets.

"Are you saying that the Cadmus Young Gallery was outsmarted...by a kid?"

"Young teenager, most likely," Sherlock pointed out. "Someone young enough to have devoured the Harry Potter series," he said, this, throwing a glance at Carla, who said nothing. "But relates more to the visual elements of the movies.”

"And you deduced this...how?" Watson asked, studying the painting again. There was a smug look on Sherlock's face that made Carla smile too. The answer was right in front of them, but he was the only one who could truly see it.

"Carla already said the answer," Sherlock pointed out. "She had remarked earlier that the symbol oddly resembled that of Harry Potter's, the title character of a children's' book series.” 

"It does," Watson said, which made both Carla and Sherlock throw him an odd look. 

"What?" He asked them. "The telly was out, and I wasn't going to read another one of Mrs. Hudson's romance books. Anyway, you were saying something about the lightning scar." 

"Right, of course," Sherlock said, turning back to the fake painting with a flourish. "The scar isn't just similar to that of Harry Potter's, it's exactly the same." He showed his audience a picture of the aforementioned scar, and he was right. The resemblance of the two was uncanny. "So, most likely our thief is more familiar with the movie version than the books. The books employ a different thunderbolt shape for the scar. Old enough to have picked up the storyline, but not old enough to know the series in its written form. Our thief is at least three years younger than you, Miss Prewett. Three years younger and quite determined to send me on a wild goose chase.”

"So where is the painting?" John asked, ending the intense look Sherlock was giving Carla.  
“Ah yes,” Sherlock said, the grin his face possibly getting wider. “So the game is on.”

 

End of Chapter One

 

 


	2. Chapter Two

Chapter Two

 

With Elizabeth out of the room and the painting confirmed as a fake, Sherlock strode dramatically out of the gallery and out to the street with John naturally falling behind. “So,” John said, stuffing his hands into his pockets as the cold wind blew in. “Where are we going to find that painting?”

"I was hoping Miss Pope could tell us," Sherlock said, turning to Carla like he knew that she would follow them. He popped the p in ‘Pope’ as if mocking the name. She took a step back, as if slightly alarmed at the man trying to tower over her with his hair and his coat. “Like I said, I don’t read the books, and you’re the only one who seems to have a good grasp of it.” he continued. “Think. Where is the thief trying to lead us?" 

"How on earth would I possibly know?” Carla said, pulling at the front of her Burberry coat. “There are dozens of places that could relate to Harry...oh. Tomorrow is the first of September, isn't it?” She asked it like she was absolutely dreading the answer. 

“Not in three hours and forty minutes," Sherlock corrected her, checking his watch. "You've thought of something. Tell me at once," he said, grabbing her shoulders, as of trying to get the much younger girl to focus. She looked into his bright blue eyes and shook her head. Now was not the time to be distracted. 

 

“K-king’s Cross Station," she told him. "In the books, Harry would go to the train station to get to the Hogwarts Express. The start of term was always the first of September." 

"We haven't any time to waste, then," Sherlock concluded, letting go of Carla's shoulders and striding to the street to hail a cab. "I will not be outsmarted by a child! On bloody science fiction, no less,” he huffed, as a taxi pulled up in front of them. He let Carla ride the cab first, she looked utterly surprised that he would want her there. 

 

“John, are you coming?" Sherlock asked his companion, his hand already on the door. John shook his head. 

“Yes, right of course.” John asked, busy with his phone. “I’ll have to tell Mary that we’ll be out for the night. She won’t like it.”

 

Sherlock huffed in dissatisfaction. Obviously, to wait for John was absolutely unacceptable. But Sherlock wasn't willing to go out on this sort of venture without John, especially after what happened with Moriarty. Plus, seeing as his opponent was versed in a language he was not, a little research would do him good. He turned to Carla.

 

"Miss Young," he said. "We will meet you at King's Cross tomorrow at nine am sharp."

“Between platforms nine and ten,” she clarified, waiting for Sherlock to nod like he understood. “Mr. Holmes, I’ll have to insist that you call me Carla."

"Until tomorrow then, Carla,” Sherlock said, closing the door of the cab before hailing another. He found Mary highly satisfactory as John’s future partner, but sometimes it felt like she was slowing them down. 

 

The following day, Sherlock and John already saw Carla waiting for them at the area in between platforms nine and ten, impatiently shifting her weight from one foot to the other while texting. _Whistles cigarette pants and H &M cotton shirt, _Sherlock noted. _Shoes look unfit for casework. Hiding again._ She looked incredibly excited at the prospect of this adventure, obviously she didn't yet understand how dangerous things could get and how quickly they could turn ugly. Or maybe she knew exactly what she was getting into and liked the idea of it.

"Platform nine and three quarters," Sherlock said, looking up at the structure around him. "Doesn't exist." 

"Someone's been reading up," Watson remarked, making Carla smile. 

"Just because it doesn't exist doesn't mean it's not there," she told him. "You could stand to believe more in magic, Mr. Holmes."

"I don't understand believing in something that isn't real," he scoffed.

 

She then took a few steps towards a giant brick arch, disconnected from the rest of the platform arches. The arch, instead of opening up to the trains, was blocked. She pointed up, and sure enough there was a sign that indicated that they were standing in front of Platform 9 and 3/4s, half a fake trolley lodged inside. Quite a few tourists were taking photos.  

"That is wicked," Watson commented, looking up at the structure. "But now what?"

"We find the next clue," Sherlock said, walking around the arch quickly, trying to examine every point, every brick on the wall while Carla hung back with Watson. 

"So how did the students get into the platform again?" he asked her. Meanwhile, Sherlock took five giant steps back from the wall.

"They just run into the platform to get to the other side," Carla said with a shrug. "Why?"

 

Just then, they heard a thud, and the great Sherlock Holmes was on his back, on the floor. John resisted the urge to laugh while Carla just blinked at him.

"Did you try to run into the wall?" she asked as he blinked up at her, seemingly disoriented.

"Yes," he said as John checked for a concussion. There seemed to be none. "That is the last time I believe in magic. I--"

 

He trailed off as he seemed to spot something in the midst of the morning sunlight. He knelt by the wall, asking Carla for some eyeshadow or a compact, which she had in her bag. Holding the makeup up to the wall, Sherlock blew on the powder, a cloud of dust rising to the air and making him smile.

"See anything interesting?" Carla asked as he handed her back the compact. Sherlock placed his hands against the pillars.

"Dust going into the cracks in this pillar," he said to her. "There's a compartment inside, one just needs to find which brick to push to find out."

"Try the combination to the entrance to Diagon Alley," she suggested. "If I remember correctly, Hagrid tapped a brick on the wall three times to get it to open."

 

"Brilliant," Sherlock said, whipping out his phone to find the combination while Carla retrieved a pointed umbrella from one of the gentlemen observing them on the train station. Sherlock poked at the brick in the wall three times after Watson told him where it was. "Three up and two across from the dustbin (or in this case, the trolley).” Miraculously (or was it magically?), a panel in the wall opened up to reveal a small space wherein Sherlock quickly retrieved a rolled up canvas and a note. 

 

"This is the Van Gogh," Carla informed the two, inspecting the painting for any damages or breaks. There were none. Sherlock confirmed that they were in fact in possession of the real painting when he looked at the note. There was a triangular symbol drawn on the bottom, while the rest of the note was typewritten. 

 

“Mister Holmes, congratulations on the re-recovery of the lost Poppy Fields,” John read from behind Sherlock's tall frame. “I however, would like to procure your services to resolve the very particular case of the murder of Sir Francis Wulfie Young. There’s no signature.”

Carla stared at the letter. There was a look on her face that Sherlock couldn't quite read, but he knew she wasn't inclined to share anything with him at the moment. He furrowed his brows, knowing that his suspicions were most likely correct now. 

"Where is your father's body?" He asked, turning to Carla, who seemed a little surprised that he was talking to her.

"Uncle said he was at St. Bart's Hospital," she told him. "What's going on?”

 

“We’re going to return the painting to the gallery,” Sherlock said, walking away from Platform 9 3/4 as his coat billowed around him (as John believed happened by sheer force of Sherlock’s will). It took Carla a second to realize that she was meant to follow them. 

 

“I thought you said you didn’t like anonymous clients,” John said, keeping up perfectly with his friend. He’d finally found his stride next to Sherlock again. Funny what two years did. 

“Oh but I know exactly who I’m working for,” Sherlock answered with a sly grin, turning just in time to see Carla coming up to them with the painting. “John, I'll need you to look at Cadmus Young’s body. I'm sure Molly would be more than happy to oblige you at Barts."

 

"And where are you going?" John asked. This is the first time Sherlock had ever passed up a trip to Barts (at least, to John’s knowledge).

"Carla and I are going to Scotland Yard to see Lestrade about that suicide note," Sherlock said, turning to her. "We can stop by your uncle's gallery to give back the painting."

"Oh, of course," Carla said distractedly as John got into a cab and went off to the morgue with a look of disbelief and without another word. Sherlock ushered Carla inside another cab and asked to be taken to the gallery first. They had been in the cab for only a few minutes when Sherlock noticed the way she bit her nails and the way her leg bobbed up and down nervously.

 

“You’re not excited about this,” he said to her like it was a fact. "If it turns out your father didn't kill himself..."

"I never believed that my father had committed suicide," she said with a deep sigh, texting someone on her phone. "He's much too proud for that."

"If you're texting your sister, I'll tell you now that she isn't going to answer," Sherlock said, looking away from her as she looked up at him in surprise.

"How did you...?"

"I told you before that only a child three years your junior could have done this," he said to her. "Once her letter came with the painting I was sure. Nobody else her age would have given a mind about Francis Young, but she went through all this trouble just to get my attention. This means only two things. Either Francesca Pope Young is somewhere she can't physically contact anyone, or she's somewhere being forced not to contact anyone. Either way, there is no way she will be able to reply to a mere text, especially not from her estranged sister. That, and she wrote ‘Wulfie' in the letter.”

 

Carla stopped and put her phone aside, taking a moment to breathe. "You're saying Frances is in danger," she clarified for him. "And that she planned all of this, just to prove that someone tried to kill our father?"

"You of all people should know if she's capable of something like this," Sherlock pointed out to her. "Frankly, the fact that a child her age can put me on such a wild goose chase is somewhat irksome, but it's quite fascinating at the same time. Definitely up to an 8 now. Oh, we're here."

 

The cab pulled to a stop as they arrived outside the Cadmus Young Gallery. "Now here's a question for you," Sherlock said, leaning forward as he twirled Frances' letter in between his fingers. “Would you come and consult for a consulting detective? I hardly think your presence will make a difference in this investigation, aside from the fact that you will save me a few pounds on my data plan. But if you want to know what happened to your father, then you are welcome to follow, observe and keep silent."

 

Carla, already standing on the street with 33 million euros in her hand, studied the only Consulting Detective. “There are a lot of people who would have motive to kill my father,” she said to him. “If you have any sense, which I am still not sure if you do, you would suspect me.”

 

The way she said it actually made Sherlock scoff and laugh. Then he realised she wasn’t kidding. “Oh, you’re not joking? No, it’s _definitely_ not you. So are you coming or not?”

“I’m in,” she smiled with the same impatient enthusiasm he saw her have at the train station. She was just about to enter the gallery when suddenly, the door burst open in front of her and out stepped a relatively older man. Judging from his impeccably grey suit and slicked back hair, Sherlock knew he was a man of importance and made sure that everyone knew it. The detached earlobes and slightly olive skin, however, were a giveaway.

 

“Uncle,” Carla said, her voice a touch more nervous than usual. She looked like a lackey cowering in front of a mob boss. Suddenly the enthusiasm was gone. If possible, Carla’s shoulders hunched even more at the presence of the man.

”Carla," he said, looking annoyed. "What's this I hear about the Van Gogh being a fake?"

"Yes, we were just hearing the details from Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson," Carla pointed out, indicating the gentleman in the cabbie with her hand. Sherlock told the cabbie to wait and descended it like he was alighting from a carriage. Introductions were exchanged, and Sherlock took a moment to observe Felix's hands. They were smooth and soft, despite having a firm grip. 

 

"I've heard about you," he said. "The greatest detective of our time, they say. I'll pay  you a quarter of a million pounds to get back the original."

“You owe me a quarter of a million pounds, then,” Sherlock said with a cheeky smile. ”Your niece offered us tremendous help in the recovery of the painting.”

Abastor Cadmus Young turned to Carla, who looked like she wasn’t sure if she should smile brightly or cower in fear. She settled for going into the gallery to have the painting returned to its proper place. Sherlock’s lips formed a thin, hard line as he held his tongue. Cadmus turned to him. 

“Thank you for your assistance in this matter, Mr. Holmes. I’ll have Carla mail you that check,” he said, walking to the sidewalk where a car was waiting for him. He gave Sherlock an odd salute and a nod with his black brolly and left the gallery.  

 

Carla reemerged from the gallery slightly out of breath, like she had wanted to catch up to her uncle. No such luck.   
“To the Met please,” Sherlock said as they reentered the cab. Carla was about to say something when she noticed that Sherlock was studying the letter. 

 

”This note was printed on normal short paper with Laserjet ink," he said with a blank expression, like it didn’t really matter wether Carla could hear him or not. "Fairly common, but of good quality." he sniffed at the paper, and he retrieved the backlight from his pocket.

“More lemon juice?” Carla asked, leaning forward to see the hidden message. This time, it was a symbol. A circle with a horizontal line drawn in the middle was encased in a triangle. “Meticulously drawn. She drew it with pencil first, grubbed it off then used the invisible ink. She wanted to get this perfect, to make sure that whoever saw it knew what it was."

 

Then he fell into silence, still staring at the note. Carla sighed and looked at him. "You don't know what it is, do you?"

"I already told you that I know nothing that I don't consider important," Sherlock almost barked as he turned to her, watching her eyes flash briefly with fear, which made him flinch. "Which is unfair on your sister's part to use that to try and outsmart me."

 

"This is the symbol of the Deathly Hallows," Carla told him, ignoring his last statement and turning back to the letter. "In the books, whoever had all three of the Hallows was considered The Master of Death."

 

The cab pulled to a stop as they reached the police station. Sherlock had just let the staff know that he was looking for Lestrade (as if they had not seen me come in here a million and one times) when John called Sherlock’s phone.

"John," he said, stopping in his tracks on the way to the Detective Inspector's office. "What do you have for me."

“You’re right, he was murdered,” John answered, already on his way to Scotland Yard. “Molly found a small puncture wound on his abdomen. It would have taken quite a while for Sir Francis to bleed internally and die, but gave the killer enough time to stage the suicide. The bruises on his neck were made post-mortem.”

"There had been a suicide note, so they immediately assumed it was a suicide," Sherlock said, shaking his head. Amateurs. "Send me photos then come to Lestrade's office."

"Already on my way," John remarked and hung up. The images then arrived on his phone. Sherlock nudged his head to the side, indicating that Carla should follow him. 

“Staged suicide, a trail of clues, yes!” Sherlock exclaimed like a kid on Christmas day. “Your sister is quite clever. Quite clever indeed, if not for the science fiction.” 

 

Carla thanked the consulting detective for the compliment and managed not to blink at his obvious glee over her father’s apparent murder. ”You and Dr. Watson make a pretty good team," she commented as Sherlock ignored the collective groans that came from the other officers when the passed by. "No wonder Elizabeth broke it off with John. She must have felt threatened by you."

"I hardly think I'm threatening," Sherlock scoffed. 

"I'd be threatened if I were her too," Carla said, like she was actually thinking it over. 

 

Sherlock merely chuckled at that as they barged into Lestrade's office. Five minutes later, Carla had her father's suicide note in her hands. It didn't take a great detective to know that it wasn't a suicide note at all, but another clue. The note was typewritten on the same kind of paper with the same laserjet ink. It sounded like a suicide note too. 

 

“The last enemy that shall be conquered is death,” Carla read. “That’s a quote from the book.  It was written on the grave of the Peverell Brothers, who were the first to have the Deathly Hallows.”  
“Of course it is,” Sherlock said, tutting his lips over to Lestrade, who pretended he was no longer scandalised by Sherlock’s berating of his skills. “And much like the other letters, if we place it over black light…”

Sure enough, the symbol of the Hallows appeared again, this time, with words written on top. “I open at the close,” Lestrade informed them, still trying to process what Sherlock had just told him about the Young case. "I don't suppose you know what that means, do you?"

 

"The Resurrection Stone," Carla said in a detached voice. She seemed a little out of it, like she couldn't believe this was happening. "We have to find my father's equivalent of the resurrection stone."

 

Sherlock paused from his pacing of the room, considering Carla’s suggestion. _I however, would like to procure your services to resolve the very particular case of the murder of Sir Francis Wulfie Young,_ Sherlock repeated in his mind the note his client had left for him. “She wants us to build the case against the killer,” he said, speaking so fast that Carla almost didn’t catch it. “Every good case will need motive, means and opportunity, which I assume she has patterned after these Hallows.”

  
_Whoever has the Deathly Hallows is the Master of Death._

 

Sherlock steepled his fingers and grinned almost maniacally to Carla. “Once we find your sister, I would very much like to have a cup of tea with her.”

“A cup of tea with her sister,” Lestrade echoed like Sherlock had said something particularly offensive. “You mean, the fifteen year old Frances Young, who is currently _missing_?”

”Of course, Lestrade. For someone to be found, they must be missing first. Where was the stone found in the books?" Sherlock asked, ignoring the confused Detective Inspector’s protests. He looked into his phone and did a quick search of what the Resurrection Stone did before turning to his consul-tee. John Watson suddenly burst into the room, asking what was going on.

"We've been handed a murder inquiry," Lestrade informed the doctor."Although your friends seem perfectly content to solve it in their own."

"So what else is new?" John asked as Sherlock hushed them both, insisting that the two shut up. Then Carla remembered. 

 

"The Resurrection Stone was hidden inside the Golden Snitch," Carla explained to them. "The note was the clue that led Harry to find the stone."

"So we'll have to find this Snitch," Sherlock said, continuing to pace the room as he pretended to know what on Earth a Snitch was. Why did it have to be Harry Potter? Couldn’t it have been dancing? ”We have to find the Snitch to find the Resurrection Stone, or whatever equivalent our thief had in mind."

"Thief? I thought you said Sir Francis was killed," Lestrade asked.

"Lestrade, there are times when you infuriate me with just the sound of your voice," Sherlock snapped at him. "We're looking for something that lets Sir Francis come back to life, but in a figurative manner. Something concrete that he could have left behind, possibly encased in gold..."

"Like a will?" John suggested, which made Sherlock clap his hands together and snap his body to the side at the realization.

"Of course, a will!" He exclaimed, looking like he wanted to kiss John right at the mouth. “His way of imposing rules from beyond the grave. One of the more common motives for murder.” He turned to Carla again. "Where did your father keep his will?"

"Er...at a safe at home. A gold safe," she said, her voice trailing off as she recalled the safe she was referring to. It was behind a portrait of her mother in their home. She knew the will was there because her father had never let her or her sister forget it. "If anything happens to me," he had told them. "You know where to look."

* * *

 

By the time her head snapped back to reality, Sherlock was already saying goodbye to Lestrade, asking John to follow him. Carla ran after the two and reached them before they hailed a cab.

"Where are you two going?" She asked them, taking a breath. She wondered when she would ever get used to their pace. Her mind was reeling and it was only almost supper.

"Breaking in to your house," Sherlock told her. "Unless you want to open the front door for us?"

She shook her head. "I haven't been to that house in three years. I can help you break in, though," she said, stepping forward to hail a cab. Sherlock looked over to his companion, whose brows were furrowed, staring at Carla.

"You're suspicious," he told John, who looked up at him. "I understand that you don't trust her. You were in the military, you hardly trust anyone."

"This is different," John insisted. "Everyone knows she had a terrible row with her father a few years ago, and he disinherited her, publicly. Why is she helping us now? Is she afraid that this whole trail will lead to herself?" he pointed out as a cab pulled up in front of them.

"You're making assumptions, John," Sherlock told his friend, doing that thing he did to absolutely tower over him like there was no room for arguments. "Best to reserve judgement for an actual killer. Shall we go?" He asked Carla, who nodded and gave her address to the cabbie. John glared at her through the rearview mirror. He still didn't trust her.

End of Chapter


	3. Act Three

Chapter Three

 

As it turned out, breaking into the Young Manor was easier than they thought. They just had to scale a six foot wall with only slim vines of ivy leaves to hold them up, then jump to a nearby window from the top of a tree. Carla had shimmied the window open  by giving the frame a good kick. It wasn't systematic or scientific, but it worked anyway. 

 

Soon, they were inside Young Manor, in the living room where Carla recalled the safe was. The portrait of Eleanor Windsor -Young, her great great grandmother, swung open like a door, and behind it, a perfectly round, golden safe. 

"The Snitch, I presume," Sherlock said, approaching the safe. It was digital, the contents accessible by a code. "A six digit code, based on the number of fingerprints on the pad."

"You don't know the code?" John asked Carla, with his arms crossed over his chest. She took three strides forward, past Sherlock and typed seven numbers on the pad. 

 

 _No good_ , Sherlock thought. _It’s a lock with six numbers._ When she pulled the handle and the safe didn't budge, she shook her head. 

"He must have changed the code when I left," she told him.

"How convenient," John commented, looking away like he didn't want her to hear what she had just said.

 

"John, do be quiet, I am trying to concentrate here," Sherlock told him, observing the safe again. It was highly possible that Frances had changed the safe's code for them, the pad looked relatively new, one maybe, two weeks old. The numbers Carla had pressed were completely wrong, none of the keys she had pressed looked like they had been touched. As for the others though....Sherlock frowned at the pad.

"Is there any specific date mentioned in the book?" He asked Carla. "Including the year?"

"No. The series isn't time bound, so they never said anything about a year," Carla said. "Although fans do speculate that Harry was born in 1991, and his birthday is on July 31."

 

Sherlock frowned at the keys and typed the date, 07-31-91. No good. “One more attempt and the alarm rings,” Carla informed the two, which made John roll his eyes and think about how bloody convenient that was. 

“Six digits, six digits,” Sherlock mumbled to himself. “Something a child wouldn’t forget. A date, to be sure, but what?”

 

There was a sound at the end of the hallway, which meant someone was coming in. John and Carla turned their heads to the door. “Housekeeper, probably,” she whispered. John nodded, probably the first thing he and Carla had ever agreed on. “We have to get out of here.”  
“Sssh, I am trying to concentrate here!” Sherlock hissed, and resumed his starting at the keypad as the steps got louder. 

 

Finally he pressed six numbers, and the safe opened. He grabbed the black folio holding the will and closed the safe. John swung back the painting with his hand as the three of them scrambled out the window and onto the street below. Carla had barely taken two steps from the wall when shots rang out across the air and in rapid succession. Sherlock immediately tackled her to the ground behind a car, John ducked beside them. They stayed in this position until they heard a car skid away, and the shots died.

  
“Still trust her?” John asked Sherlock while placed precariously on the detective’s back. Carla was about to say something when he put his hands over her mouth.   
“Don’t move,” said Sherlock. “Shots came from the street, a moving vehicle, probably. We have to go somewhere to hide. Preferably in a two block radius with a crowd, your killers will assume we ran far. Do you know a place?” Carla nodded and they scurried over to a cafe across the street before they huddled into a table, the black folio right in front of them. 

 

“Oh god, oh god, they were trying to kill me, weren’t they?” Carla asked, running her hands through her hair, wringing her fingers. “My sister! What if they already killed Frances?” It took John a moment to realise that her fingers were trembling and her breath was becoming quite short. She grasped at her chest as her vision became blurry. Suddenly she realised that her heels were no good for casework as she felt like she was standing over a high ledge, just about ready to fall when Sherlock grabbed her shoulders. 

 

“Carla, Carla, look at me,” he said in a firm, almost terrifying voice. “ _Look_ at me.”

Her eyes snapped up right into his, like she was staring into bright, blue pools. Her pupils were dilated, and John was about to tell Sherlock to stop when her breath immediately started to slow. “That’s right, that’s a good girl. Now breathe. I won’t hurt you, I won’t hurt you. That’s a love.” 

Then, in an almost forceful move, he grabbed her hands, placing one of his on her cheek to keep her eyes focused on him. “We will find your sister. We will find her and your father’s killer. Do you understand?”

She closed her eyes like she wanted to look away, but Sherlock shook her quite forcefully. “ _Do_ you understand?”  
“Y-yes. Of course,” Carla answered, her voice now completely calm. She then excused her self to go to the loo and perhaps drink a glass of water. Sherlock asked for the same and settled into his seat, only to have John glaring at him.

“What the bloody hell was that?” John asked, slightly outraged. “You terrified her!”  
“If you really think she was guilty, you would have approved,” Sherlock said, like he had not done anything mildly threatening in the last few minutes. “Carla is showing signs of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, possibly unknown to her since it’s been left untreated for years. Abuse, most likely, given the way she responded to me.”  
“Sherlock,” John said, sounding like he was trying to keep his voice calm. Sherlock knew that expression. John was contemplating wether or not he would punch him across the face. 

“You don’t—“  
 

“Sandwiches and tea,” Carla said, coming up to them with a small tray of food. “I realised we skipped lunch.”  
“Not the first time,” John commented, picking up a sandwich and a teacup as Carla sat in the booth with them. She noticed Sherlock studying the will like it was about to explode. She bit into her sandwich like she wasn’t sure if she wanted to read the will or not.   
“This feels wrong,” she said, indicating the folio. “I haven’t spoken to my father in years. I’m not meant to read this.”  
“If this is about the money--” John began, but Sherlock shook his head. 

“It’s not about the money,” Sherlock insisted. “I told you your sister was in danger. As far as my considerable deduction skills can surmise, your sister wants us to find this. The Resurrection Stone and your father’s will. If you want to find his killer, if you want to find Frances, you need to read this.” 

 

The frown of her face did not change, but she took the corner of the folio anyway, opening it for the two to read. John’s eyes widened when he realised just how rich Sir Francis Wulfric Young was. His eyes scanned the document until he reached the most important part. 

 

_Upon my death, I shall bequeath my entire estate unto my daughter, Francesca Pope Young, to be set up as a trust that shall be active on her 30th birthday. My oldest daughter, Carla Pope Young is to be administrator of this estate until the trust fund is in effect, upon which she will receive a major holding share in the Young Foundation for the Arts._

 

“What,” Carla said in disbelief. “He wants me to…but the Foundation is…”

“One of the biggest companies in Great Britain,”Sherlock said like he had completely expected it. “Obviously, your father was not as austere as you believed him to be. The code to the safe was written at the bottom of what I presume to be a photo of you on his desk—“  
“My birthday,” she said, in realisation.  Sherlock paused, like he hated that she had interrupted him, but pressed on. 

 

“I am, however, more intrigued by what is _not_ in the will, or rather, who,” Sherlock said, bringing out his backlight, feeling particularly pleased that it was getting a lot of use on this case. “Like I said before, a will is usually the source of motive. Carla’s presence here removes her as a suspect.” He waved the light over the paper just enough to reveal the next Hallows symbol and the next clue. “I wonder who is high on your list now, John.”

John was about to say something when the next letter revealed itself. “Immensely powerful, dangerous in the wrong hands and an object of incredible fascination to all,” Sherlock read. “Sounds like a Christmas gift. Any thoughts, Carla?”

She seemed to be in something of a daze, and had not heard Sherlock speaking to her until two seconds later. “Oh, uhm, what was that again?”

Sherlock was about to roll his eyes and repeat the clue when John stopped him. “I say we call it a night,” he said, giving Sherlock wide eyes like he was trying to pass on subtext. Which, obviously, the supposedly ingenious consulting detective had failed to pick up on. “Maybe we should all have some rest before we press on?”  
“Rest?” Sherlock echoed, his lips tightly curled like he was an upset child. John rolled his eyes.   
“Yes, I think it would do _all_ of us some good,” he said, nudging his head slightly towards Carla, who was looking out the window and sipping her tea, obviously having run our of energy to pay the boys any mind. Sherlock might have just gotten the hint, his mouth forming an ‘oh’ at the realization. 

 

“Right. Baker Street it is then. I’m sure Mrs. Hudson wouldn’t mind another houseguest,” he said, standing up to straighten his coat and pull on his scarf. 

“I’m sorry?” Carla asked, her brows furrowed as John went ahead to hail a cabbie, the folio in his hand. 

“Obviously, given that someone is after you, it would not be wise to go back to your flat,” Sherlock informed her, placing a hand on her back to gently force her out the door. “I’ve asked Lestrade to send over some pictures of the crime scene as well, and I’d like to study them to facilitate a smoother investigation.”

“Sherlock, please. I’m fine. We can continue if you wish,” Carla said, shrugging off his help as John stood on the sidewalk. Sherlock looked like he seriously wanted to consider the suggestion, but the murderous look on John’s face was enough to make him insist otherwise. 

 

 End of Chapter


	4. The Final Act

Chapter Four 

 

At Baker Street, John quickly excused himself to call Mary to let him know that he would need to stay just a bit longer. Sherlock had already picked up his violin, playing by the window as Carla stood in the flat for the first time. One (or several) of Sherlock’s experiments had obviously gone stale, given the smell. The lights were dim, as they would be in a horror film, but there was something homey about it all. Like each thing had its own place. Maybe it was just Sherlock’s playing that had her feeling slightly more at ease. She had been used to the horrid sounds of a child learning how to play the violin. Frances, with all her cleverness, had failed to pick up the instrument’s finer points. Hearing Sherlock play an actual melody was both grating and soothing at the same time. 

 

“Beethoven, Violin Sonata No.8, Opus 24. Spring,” she said softly, humming the piano accompaniment to match Sherlock’s devastatingly slow tempo and lowered pitch. He stopped when he realised she was humming, and she stopped when she realised he heard her. 

 

“Right, can I offer you a cuppa and biscuits?” John asked, reentering the apartment and heading straight to the kitchen. He paused to think if he should apologise for Sherlock’s playing, but thought better against it and continued.   
“Nothing with a severed finger, please,” Carla said, smiling as she sat on the couch.   
“Don’t touch anything on the table, John,” Sherlock not so gently reminded him, resuming his playing. He surreptitiously watched as Carla stood up from the couch and walked over to his desk. 

 

Impatience (or perhaps boredom?) getting the best of her, she glanced at the files on his desk, no doubt reading Sherlock’s fascinating study of the boiling point of various bodily fluids. Then she spotted the envelope Mrs. Hudson had left for him on the desk, her father’s name written plainly for all to see. Sherlock resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Lestrade had once again, proven his lack of skill in the subtlety department. 

 

“It’s the Elder Wand,” Carla suddenly said, cutting through Sherlock’s playing like she had cut the strings of his violin. 

“What?” John asked, coming in with a tray of tea and biscuits. 

“Immensely powerful, dangerous in the wrong hands and an object of incredible fascination to all,” Carla quoted, her eyes off-focus as her gaze was directed towards the envelope. “It’s the Elder Wand.” She spun, her gaze turned to the men who gave her the attention. “The most powerful wand in the universe…well, in that universe anyway. A terrible sort of weapon, that. Made with the hair of a thestral, a dark horse with wings, and elder wood. It follows the will of the one who kills its previous master.”

  
“Weapon,” Sherlock noted, putting down the instrument to plop into his chair, not before picking up John’s cup. “The wand is the weapon, the weapon is the means and therefore we must find the wand.” 

 

He strode over to where Carla was standing, reaching over her to grab the case file Lestrade had sent over. He pulled the photos out from the envelope as Carla picked up the second teacup, John chewing thoughtfully on a biscuit as Sherlock tacked up the photos on the wall behind the couch. He heard Carla swallow thickly when the photos went up. 

“Sherlock, you—“  
“No, it’s fine, Dr. Watson,” Carla said with a deep breath. “Go ahead, Sherlock.”

 

Obviously, Sherlock didn’t need either of their permission to continue his observation. He commented that it was incredibly inconvenient that he was only relying on photographs. The scene would have been cleaned by now, especially since they thought it was a suicide. Still tutting to himself,  Sherlock continued to look through the photos, standing on the couch like it was a stair step, saying observations out loud.   
“Strangulations were made post-mortem, obviously. No defensive wounds to note. The stab is small, only a few millimetres in diameter and incredibly sharp. It had to be long enough to pierce through the important organs. A sword, perhaps?” 

Carla was slightly surprised that John had joined him on the couch.

“A sword. Really,” John asked sarcastically, making Sherlock glare at him. 

“I don’t recall inviting you up here, John,” he said, bouncing on the couch a little to throw his friend off balance. John stumbled for a second, but maintained his position, still looking at the photos of the body.

“What are you, five bloody years old?”   
“Six, actually,” Sherlock corrected, continuing to bounce and observe, which was absolutely maddening. From Carla’s spot near the fireplace, it was like she was watching a show on the telly. She stopped herself from giggling when John suddenly clamped a hand over Sherlock’s shoulder, stopping him. 

 

“Dizzy already, doctor?” Sherlock asked in a teasing voice, although it took him a second to realise that John had discovered something. 

“Look at that,” he said, pointing to a close up of Sir Francis’ cheek. “I didn’t see it earlier, but when it’s been blown up like that…”

Sherlock almost shoved John off the couch when he looked. “Bruise on the left side of his face. It looks odd. Like something was imprinted on it. Carla, do you—“

There was a crash as she dropped her half-empty teacup on the floor, shattering it to pieces. Like the cup, it was like there was something in her that shattered as well, and John could tell it was much worse than what had happened to her in the cafe. This was sheer panic. Her entire body seemed to shake with fear, her legs looking like they were about to give out. 

 

Sherlock, however, was fast. It took him three large strides to catch their consultant before she collapsed, easing her into his usual chair. Her hands were cold like she and been struck with ice, her breathing once again uneven. 

 

“Carla,” he said, his voice still firm but much more warm than it was earlier. “Carla, do you recognise these bruises?”  
She nodded, tears springing into her eyes. She tried bravely to shrug them off, but they just kept coming, like the bad memory that was trying to take over her. Sherlock held her by the shoulders, trying to get her to breathe and focus. 

“How did you—“  
“I h-had them,” she said, her voice sounded strained, like she was forcing the confession out of herself. “When I was a l-little girl, I had them. All over my arms. It h-hurt, so badly.”

“Who gave them to you?” Sherlock asked, his hand brushed the hair from her face in a comforting gesture. She wheezed and sobbed, like it was almost too difficult to even think about it.

 

“Uncle Cadmus,” she said, the first time in several years that she had admitted it to anyone. She tried to push away the thoughts of her uncle coming into her room, telling her to keep quiet. He would hurt her when she tried to make noises. Hit her. “It’s from his ring. His black stallion ring.”

 

Then she gave into the tears, her body folding completely to Sherlock’s touch. Much to John’s surprise, the consulting detective wrapped his arms around her and let her sob, helping her up. “Get some rest,” he spoke, helping her into the bedroom. The sobbing stopped after a few moments, Sherlock emerging from the room with a dark look on his face. 

 

“That was…that was good of you,” John said, not really knowing what to say. 

“Nobody deserves that kind of treatment, John,” Sherlock said, deeply disturbed. “There is no rationalising such behaviour.” He moved to the seat Carla had previously occupied, stippling his fingers as he stared blankly into the wall. “Now, however, we have a clear suspect.” 

 

“Cadmus Young, the brother,” John said, looking at the bruises again to see the outline of the stallion embedded in Sir Francis’ skin. “You think she ever told her father about it, what he did?”

“I’m sure she did,” Sherlock said, his gaze still unfocused. “There are signs. Francis had drafted the will we found weeks after he had supposedly disowned Carla. She was written back in, and Cadmus was written out. Their argument must have stemmed from Carla trying to confess to her father what Cadmus had done, only to have the tables turn against her when her father refused to believe her.”

“But why go to her uncle, then?” John asked. “If he was the one who did this to her, why would she work for him?”

“Are you familiar with Stockholm Syndrome?” Sherlock asked his friend, his eyes looking over where John was now standing. “I observed the way she acted around her uncle. She obviously responded to his cold demeanour and his cruelty. When I spoke harshly during her panic attack, she listened. Classic signs that she still thought highly of her abuser. Her delicate mental state had her confusing fear for love.”

 

“God,” John said, pressing a hand to his creased forehead. 

 

“Cadmus learned that he was no longer included in his brother’s will and confronted him. Sir Francis Young informs his brother of his knowledge of the truth behind Carla’s past trauma. Cadmus, wanting to silence his brother, punched him with his ring then killed him with a weapon of some kind,” Sherlock said, the incident almost perfectly clear in his mind. But still, the weapon was a mystery to him. They knew who they were after, but without the murder weapon, they had nothing against Cadmus Young except an odd bruise.

 

 

The next thing Sherlock realized, it was morning. John was visibly absent from his apartment, and Carla was sitting on the couch, watching him with a cup of tea in her hand. She’d obviously had a shower, wearing a robe she had borrowed from him. She looked at Sherlock strangely, like she wasn’t sure how to regard him. 

 

“Where’s John?” Sherlock asked, suddenly feeling the strain on his body of not having slept a wink the entire night. 

“He left hours ago,” Carla said, sipping her cup, obviously much calmer now. Her eyes were still slightly swollen, though. “Something about breakfast with Mary. Did you want some tea?”

“No,” he said in an oddly tried voice. “How…how are you?”  
“I’m fine,” she said with a small smile. “Not completely better. I’m sorry you had to see that. Twice.”  
“I don’t see why you would apologise for a perfectly natural reaction to unaddressed childhood trauma,” Sherlock said, standing up to stretch a little. “MRS. HUDSOOOOON!” He hollered into the open doorway, heading to the kitchen. “I would recommend a few barbiturates for that, but then again, a mind like yours may be too precious to waste.”

He strode over to the door, hollering again. “MRS. HUDSOOOON!”  
“If you’re being sarcastic, I can’t tell,” she said. Sherlock paused like she had just issued him a challenge. 

“Last night,” he said, barely missing a beat in the conversation. “You were able to match the notes to Mozart’s composition perfectly. The change of tempo and pitch usually throws other musicians off, but you knew better. Your hands are always perfectly manicured, and I have noticed that you carry around with you not one, but two tubes of expensive hand cream. So, piano. I rarely find good accompanists to my playing nowadays, and would find it such a waste if I let you lose that skill to drugs.”

 

“So…sarcasm?” 

 

Sherlock blinked. “Well…yes.”

 

“Alright,” she said. “May I venture a deduction?”

“Please,” he said, Mrs. Hudson totally forgotten as he walked back to his previous pose on his chair. “Deduce me.”

“Right,” she said, placing the teacup on the saucer and her back against the couch. “Judging by the state of your clothes and the position at which I saw you, you didn’t sleep last night. Most people would think it was because you spent the night racking your brains for the solution to my father’s death, but no. Your violin, which I assume helps you think, is still in the same place you left it before I went to bed. Your coat collar is still turned up where you hung it,” she said, indicating the aforementioned coat hanging behind the door. “So you left the house sometime last night. Possibly to find the means of the crime. Whatever it was, you were successful. You know how my uncle killed my father, which is why you can now afford to deduce more of my personality.”

 

Sherlock blinked at her. 

 

“How was that?” she asked him. 

 

“Good,” he said with a smile. “Now get dressed, Miss Young. We have a killer to catch.”

 

* * *

 

 

The party assembled at Lestrade’s office just before the Detective Inspector had his first cup of coffee. John, roused out of bed at Sherlock’s insistence and Mary’s gentle threats, was still not completely awake. Sherlock, however, looked like he had slept all night. Clearly it was solving crimes that nourished this creature. Lestrade looked over the will and the photos from them. 

 

“Well, go ahead then,” he said to Sherlock. “You have the floor.”

 

Sherlock swept around the room like an actor in front of the assembled audience of John, Mary, Carla and Greg. He turned up his collar, making John roll his eyes, and began the big reveal.

 

“My client,” he began. “Asked me to find the means, motive and opportunity of which Sir Francis Young had died. Now, silly science fiction aside—“  
“I would hardly call Harry Potter silly—“ Lestrade began. 

“George, honestly, what is the point of you asking me to do this?” Sherlock said, his eyes flashing murderously at the policeman behind the desk.   
“I didn’t ask you to do this. You came here on your own,” he pointed out.

“As I was saying,” Sherlock said, silencing the Detective Inspector with a look. “Frances Young somehow asked me to find her father’s killer and build a case. We noted the presence of a distinct bruise on Sir Francis’ left cheek in the shape of a black stallion. Cadmus Young was born Abastor Cadmus Young. His name, quite literally means, a black stallion. Connect this with the clue of the thestrals—we have our suspect and one of the two means that he was killed.”  
“The stabbing?” John asked. Sherlock nodded.  
“The motive is the will. Obviously. The means, a precise stab to the abdomen and a staged suicide. Like I said before, the weapon had to have been long, sharp and precise.” He whipped out his phone, browsing something on it for a second before showing the screen to his audience. 

 

“I had some of my people trail Cadmus Young since the start of the investigation,” he spoke. “As you can see, he is never seen without his inconspicuous black brolly. Certainly not odd, but given the unexpectedly sunny weather we’ve been having for the last few days, it is something to consider.” Sherlock said, walking to the bin in Lestrade’s office that had a few brollies in. He pulled out a black one with a silver tip, placing it on Lestrade’s desk. “May I present, the Elder Wand,” he said with a flourish. 

 

“Hang on, did you steal this?” Lestrade asked. 

“I am not saying I didn’t, but I can assure you this belongs to Cadmus Young,” he said, indicating the handle where his name was actually engraved. “Im sure you will find traces of Sir Francis’ blood on the false brolly tip, as I did.”  
  

* * *

 

 

Within hours, Abastor Cadmus Young was clapped in darbies and sent to jail. The media and news had hailed the ‘Boffin Sherlock Holmes and his companion Bachelor John Watson’ once again as heroes of England, a thought that both irritated and secretly pleased Sherlock. Carla had opted to say in her flat when the arrest was made—she would rather not see her uncle again. She felt lighter than she had been in years, almost free. John had assured her that therapy would help, and she hoped to the high heaven that it would. 

 

It wasn’t until nearly lunchtime, when Carla was playing Rachmaninov on her Steinway baby grand, that Sherlock walked right into her flat. She jumped at his intrusion. 

“The Invisibility Cloak,” he said simply. 

“I’m sorry, what?” She asked him. “How did you know where I lived?”  
“Please,” Sherlock asked like the explanation was beneath even her. 

“Right,” she said. “Cloak?”

 

“The Deathly Hallows,” he continued, like he was in kind of a trance. “The Stone, the Wand, the Cloak. Motive, means, opportunity. We haven’t finished the case.” He didn’t even bother hanging up his coat this time, tossing it to the side before he picked it up and placed it neatly behind the chair. No need to be sloppy.    
“My sister is still missing,” Carla presumed.  “Uncle Cadmus had no idea she was missing when you questioned him.”

“She must have seen what had happened,” Sherlock surmised, striding around the room. “She feared for her own life and made herself disappear while she hired me to build a case against Cadmus. As a witness, she provides the opportunity at which Cadmus killed your father.”

 

Carla had closed her top of the piano, resting her elbows on it. “The cloak makes the user invisible, even to Death.”

  
Sherlock paused suddenly, picking up his coat once again and walking out the door. This time, Carla knew better than to reconsider following. Sherlock hailed a cab and they both got in. She hadn’t heard him give an address. 

“Rachmaninov, Concerto no. 2,” he said like he was talking about the weather. She nodded at his assessment.   
“A little generous with the forte, but still, a good interpretation,” he said, straightening his scarf. Carla sighed. How on earth was she able to keep up with him for so long?  
“Where are we going, Sherlock?” 

“The one place Harry Potter ever felt safe,” he said, as the cab pulled up to their destination. 

 

Carla followed him down and turned to the entrance gates of a tall brick building, closed for the summer holidays. The gates had been left ajar, so it was easy to enter. A short walk up the driveway revealed that they were in a school. In the distance, they heard someone attempting to murder her violin. Carla laughed, her eyes filled with happy tears. 

 

“You read the books, didn’t you?” she asked him. 

  
“I’d wager my client is inside,” Sherlock said, turning to Carla with a satisfied grin. She quickly squeezed his shoulder in thanks before rushing into the building. 

 

“Master of Death indeed,” he said with a smile, watching the Young sisters finally reunite.

END

 


End file.
